"Well, I won't wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on Wednesday, and bake on Thursday. I'll let every day be a surprise."
"Yes," said Mrs. Procter, "and a nice mix-up there'd be. You must have set times for every task if you expect to accomplish anything."
"But isn't it 'complishing anything if you're happy?" asked Suzanna, really puzzled.
Mrs. Procter hesitated. "But you can be happy working, too."
"But I know, mother, that I'd be happier today out in the sun."
"But the truth remains, Suzanna, that if we don't wash on Monday we'd have to wash on Tuesday, and that ties up everything at the end of the week," said her mother.
Suzanna sighed. She couldn't by mere words combat her mother's arguments. They seemed indeed unassailable if you applied plain reason to them. But something deeper, finer than reason, made Suzanna believe that to be out in the sun, to be under the trees, to be dreaming in the perfume of flowers, was more important than cleaning and dusting; anyway in a glorious, straight-from-Heaven day like this Wednesday. So she returned unconvinced to the dishes, while her mother after tying the baby in his high chair cast an appraising eye around, wondering just where she should begin her upheaval.
Suddenly a loud, heart-rending outcry was heard, and Peter, who a moment before had been playing peacefully in the yard, came rushing into the house. Out of the medley of his piteous cries, Suzanna at last made sense. Not so her mother who asked anxiously:
"What in the world is he crying so for, Suzanna? Is he hurt? Will he let you look him over?"
"No, he's not hurt," returned Suzanna. "He is crying because never in all his life will he be able to see his ears."